简.爱 英文版 Jane Eyre
夏洛蒂.勃朗特 Charlotte Bronte
CHAPTER XXXIII Page 1
When Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirlingstorm continued all night. The next day a keen wind brought freshand blinding falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up and almostimpassable. I had closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door toprevent the snow from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, andafter sitting nearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffledfury of the tempest, I lit a candle, took down "Marmion, " and beginning -
"Day set on Norham's castled steep,And Tweed's fair river broad and deep,And Cheviot's mountains lone;The massive towers, the donjon keep,The flanking walls that round them sweep,In yellow lustre shone" -
I soon forgot storm in music.
I heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No; it wasSt. John Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozenhurricane -- the howling darkness -- and stood before me: thecloak that covered his tall figure all white as a glacier. I wasalmost in consternation, so little had I expected any guest fromthe blocked-up vale that night.
"Any ill news?" I demanded. "Has anything happened?"
"No. How very easily alarmed you are!" he answered, removing hiscloak and hanging it up against the door, towards which he againcoolly pushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. He stampedthe snow from his boots.
"I shall sully the purity of your floor, " said he, "but you mustexcuse me for once. " Then he approached the fire. "I have hadhard work to get here, I assure you, " he observed, as he warmed hishands over the flame. "One drift took me up to the waist; happilythe snow is quite soft yet. "
"But why are you come?" I could not forbear saying.
"Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but sinceyou ask it, I answer simply to have a little talk with you; I gottired of my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterdayI have experienced the excitement of a person to whom a tale hasbeen half- told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel. "
He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, andreally I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane,however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had neverseen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselledmarble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair fromhis forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow andcheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the hollow trace ofcare or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting he wouldsay something I could at least comprehend; but his hand was now athis chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck methat his hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps uncalled-forgush of pity came over my heart: I was moved to say -
"I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it is too badthat you should be quite alone; and you are recklessly rash aboutyour own health. "
"Not at all, " said he: "I care for myself when necessary. I amwell now. What do you see amiss in me?"
This was said with a careless, abstracted indifference, which showedthat my solicitude was, at least in his opinion, wholly superfluous.I was silenced.
He still slowly moved his finger over his upper lip, and still hiseye dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it urgent to saysomething, I asked him presently if he felt any cold draught fromthe door, which was behind him.
"No, no!" he responded shortly and somewhat testily.
"Well, " I reflected, "if you won't talk, you may be still; I'lllet you alone now, and return to my book. "
So I snuffed the candle and resumed the perusal of "Marmion. " Hesoon stirred; my eye was instantly drawn to his movements; he onlytook out a morocco pocket-book, thence produced a letter, which heread in silence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into meditation.It was vain to try to read with such an inscrutable fixture beforeme; nor could I, in impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuffme if he liked, but talk I would.
"Have you heard from Diana and Mary lately?"
"Not since the letter I showed you a week ago. "
"There has not been any change made about your own arrangements?You will not be summoned to leave England sooner than you expected?"
"I fear not, indeed: such chance is too good to befall me. " Baffledso far, I changed my ground. I bethought myself to talk about theschool and my scholars.
"Mary Garrett's mother is better, and Mary came back to the schoolthis morning, and I shall have four new girls next week from theFoundry Close -- they would have come to-day but for the snow. "
"Indeed!"
"Mr. Oliver pays for two. "
"Does he?"
"He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas. "
"I know. "
"Was it your suggestion?"
"No. "
"Whose, then?"
"His daughter's, I think. "
"It is like her: she is so good-natured. "
"Yes. "
Again came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight strokes.It aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me.
"Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the fire, " hesaid.
Wondering, and of my wonder finding no end, I complied.
"Half-an-hour ago, " he pursued, "I spoke of my impatience to hearthe sequel of a tale: on reflection, I find the matter will bebetter managed by my assuming the narrator's part, and convertingyou into a listener. Before commencing, it is but fair to warnyou that the story will sound somewhat hackneyed in your ears; butstale details often regain a degree of freshness when they passthrough new lips. For the rest, whether trite or novel, it isshort.
"Twenty years ago, a poor curate -- never mind his name at thismoment -- fell in love with a rich man's daughter; she fell in lovewith him, and married him, against the advice of all her friends,who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding. Beforetwo years passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietlyside by side under one slab. (I have seen their grave; it formedpart of the pavement of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim,soot-black old cathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in-shire. ) They left a daughter, which, at its very birth, Charityreceived in her lap -- cold as that of the snow-drift I almost stuckfast in to-night. Charity carried the friendless thing to the houseof its rich maternal relations; it was reared by an aunt-in-law,called (I come to names now) Mrs. Reed of Gateshead. You start --did you hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat scrambling alongthe rafters of the adjoining schoolroom: it was a barn beforeI had it repaired and altered, and barns are generally haunted byrats. -- To proceed. Mrs. Reed kept the orphan ten years: whetherit was happy or not with her, I cannot say, never having been told;but at the end of that time she transferred it to a place you know-- being no other than Lowood School, where you so long residedyourself. It seems her career there was very honourable: from apupil, she became a teacher, like yourself -- really it strikes methere are parallel points in her history and yours -- she left itto be a governess: there, again, your fates were analogous; sheundertook the education of the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester. "
"Mr. Rivers!" I interrupted.
handwriting, the words"JANE EYRE" -- the work .
"I can guess your feelings, " he said, "but restrain them for a while:I have nearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr. Rochester'scharacter I know nothing, but the one fact that he professed tooffer honourable marriage to this young girl, and that at the veryaltar she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic.What his subsequent conduct and proposals were is a matter of pureconjecture; but when an event transpired which rendered inquiryafter the governess necessary, it was discovered she was gone -- noone could tell when, where, or how. She had left Thornfield Hallin the night; every research after her course had been vain: thecountry had been scoured far and wide; no vestige of informationcould be gathered respecting her. Yet that she should be found isbecome a matter of serious urgency: advertisements have been putin all the papers; I myself have received a letter from one Mr.Briggs, a solicitor, communicating the details I have just imparted.Is it not an odd tale?"
"Just tell me this, " said I, "and since you know so much, yousurely can tell it me -- what of Mr. Rochester? How and where ishe? What is he doing? Is he well?"
"I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the letter nevermentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt Ihave adverted to. You should rather ask the name of the governess-- the nature of the event which requires her appearance. "
"Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see Mr.Rochester?"
"I suppose not. "
your namesake? -- that Iwas christened!
"Of course. "
"And what did he say? Who has his letters?"
"Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was notfrom Mr. Rochester, but from a lady: it is signed 'Alice Fairfax. '"
I felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were probably true:he had in all probability left England and rushed in recklessdesperation to some former haunt on the Continent. And what opiatefor his severe sufferings -- what object for his strong passions-- had he sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, mypoor master -- once almost my husband -- whom I had often called"my dear Edward!"
"He must have been a bad man, " observed Mr. Rivers.
"You don't know him -- don't pronounce an opinion upon him, " Isaid, with warmth.
"Very well, " he answered quietly: "and indeed my head is otherwiseoccupied than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won'task the governess's name, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay!I have it here -- it is always more satisfactory to see importantpoints written down, fairly committed to black and white. "
And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, soughtthrough; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slipof paper, hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and itsstains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished marginof the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: andI read, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words"JANE EYRE" -- the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction.
"Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:" he said, "the advertisementsdemanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott. -- I confess I had mysuspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at onceresolved into certainty. You own the name and renounce the alias?"
"Yes -- yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more ofMr. Rochester than you do. "
"Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing anything at allabout Mr. Rochester; it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested.Meantime, you forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you donot inquire why Mr. Briggs sought after you -- what he wanted withyou. "
"Well, what did he want?"
"Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead;that he has left you all his property, and that you are now rich-- merely that -- nothing more. "
"I! -- rich?"
"Yes, you, rich -- quite an heiress. "
Silence succeeded.
"You must prove your identity of course, " resumed St. John presently:"a step which will offer no difficulties; you can then enter onimmediate possession. Your fortune is vested in the English funds;Briggs has the will and the necessary documents. "
Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to belifted in a moment from indigence to wealth -- a very fine thing;but not a matter one can comprehend, or consequently enjoy, all atonce. And then there are other chances in life far more thrillingand rapture-giving: THIS is solid, an affair of the actual world,nothing ideal about it: all its associations are solid and sober,and its manifestations are the same. One does not jump, and spring,and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one beginsto consider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a baseof steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we containourselves, and brood over our bliss with a solemn brow.
Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side by side with the words,Death, Funeral. My uncle I had heard was dead -- my only relative;ever since being made aware of his existence, I had cherished thehope of one day seeing him: now, I never should. And then thismoney came only to me: not to me and a rejoicing family, but tomy isolated self. It was a grand boon doubtless; and independencewould be glorious -- yes, I felt that -- that thought swelled myheart.
"You unbend your forehead at last, " said Mr. Rivers. "I thoughtMedusa had looked at you, and that you were turning to stone.Perhaps now you will ask how much you are worth?"
"Oh, a trifle! Nothing of course to speak of -- twenty thousandpounds, I think they say -- but what is that?"
"Twenty thousand pounds?"
Here was a new stunner -- I had been calculating on four or fivethousand. This news actually took my breath for a moment: Mr.St. John, whom I had never heard laugh before, laughed now.
"Well, " said he, "if you had committed a murder, and I had toldyou your crime was discovered, you could scarcely look more aghast. "
"It is a large sum -- don't you think there is a mistake?"
"No mistake at all. "
"Perhaps you have read the figures wrong -- it may be two thousand!"
"It is written in letters, not figures, -- twenty thousand. "
I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomicalpowers sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisionsfor a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put his cloak on.
"If it were not such a very wild night, " he said, "I would sendHannah down to keep you company: you look too desperately miserableto be left alone. But Hannah, poor woman! could not stride thedrifts so well as I: her legs are not quite so long: so I muste'en leave you to your sorrows. Good-night. "
He was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to me. "Stopone minute!" I cried.
"Well?"
"It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs wrote to you about me; or howhe knew you, or could fancy that you, living in such an out-of-the-wayplace, had the power to aid in my discovery. "
"Oh! I am a clergyman, " he said; "and the clergy are often appealedto about odd matters. " Again the latch rattled.
"No; that does not satisfy me!" I exclaimed: and indeed therewas something in the hasty and unexplanatory reply which, insteadof allaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever.
"It is a very strange piece of business, " I added; "I must knowmore about it. "
"Another time. "
"No; to-night! -- to-night!" and as he turned from the door, Iplaced myself between it and him. He looked rather embarrassed.
"You certainly shall not go till you have told me all, " I said.
"I would rather not just now. "
"You shall! -- you must!"
"I would rather Diana or Mary informed you. "
Of course these objections wrought my eagerness to a climax:gratified it must be, and that without delay; and I told him so.
"But I apprised you that I was a hard man, " said he, "difficult topersuade. "
"And I am a hard woman, -- impossible to put off. "
"And then, " he pursued, "I am cold: no fervour infects me. "
"Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. The blaze there hasthawed all the snow from your cloak; by the same token, it hasstreamed on to my floor, and made it like a trampled street. Asyou hope ever to be forgiven, Mr. Rivers, the high crime andmisdemeanour of spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish toknow. "
"Well, then, " he said, "I yield; if not to your earnestness, to yourperseverance: as stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides,you must know some day, -- as well now as later. Your name is JaneEyre?"
"Of course: that was all settled before. "
"You are not, perhaps, aware that I am your namesake? -- that Iwas christened St. John Eyre Rivers?"
"No, indeed! I remember now seeing the letter E. comprised in yourinitials written in books you have at different times lent me; butI never asked for what name it stood. But what then? Surely -- "
I stopped: I could not trust myself to entertain, much less toexpress, the thought that rushed upon me -- that embodied itself,-- that, in a second, stood out a strong, solid probability.Circumstances knit themselves, fitted themselves, shot into order:the chain that had been lying hitherto a formless lump of linkswas drawn out straight, -- every ring was perfect, the connectioncomplete. I knew, by instinct, how the matter stood, before St.John had said another word; but I cannot expect the reader to havethe same intuitive perception, so I must repeat his explanation.
"My mother's name was Eyre; she had two brothers; one a clergyman,who married Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead; the other, John Eyre, Esq. ,merchant, late of Funchal, Madeira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr. Eyre'ssolicitor, wrote to us last August to inform us of our uncle'sdeath, and to say that he had left his property to his brother theclergyman's orphan daughter, overlooking us, in consequence of aquarrel, never forgiven, between him and my father. He wrote againa few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was lost, and askingif we knew anything of her. A name casually written on a slip ofpaper has enabled me to find her out. You know the rest. " Againhe was going, but I set my back against the door.
"Do let me speak, " I said; "let me have one moment to draw breathand reflect. " I paused -- he stood before me, hat in hand,looking composed enough. I resumed -
"Your mother was my father's sister?"
"Yes. "
"My aunt, consequently?"
He bowed.
"My uncle John was your uncle John? You, Diana, and Mary are hissister's children, as I am his brother's child?"
"Undeniably. "
"You three, then, are my cousins; half our blood on each side flowsfrom the same source?"
"We are cousins; yes. "
I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could beproud of, -- one I could love; and two sisters, whose qualitieswere such, that, when I knew them but as mere strangers, they hadinspired me with genuine affection and admiration. The two girls,on whom, kneeling down on the wet ground, and looking through thelow, latticed window of Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with sobitter a mixture of interest and despair, were my near kinswomen;and the young and stately gentleman who had found me almost dyingat his threshold was my blood relation. Glorious discovery to alonely wretch! This was wealth indeed! -- wealth to the heart! --a mine of pure, genial affections. This was a blessing, bright,vivid, and exhilarating; -- not like the ponderous gift of gold:rich and welcome enough in its way, but sobering from its weight.I now clapped my hands in sudden joy -- my pulse bounded, my veinsthrilled.
"Oh, I am glad! -- I am glad!" I exclaimed.
St. John smiled. "Did I not say you neglected essential pointsto pursue trifles?" he asked. "You were serious when I told youyou had got a fortune; and now, for a matter of no moment, you areexcited. "